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HERMANN AND DOROTHEA
TOWARDS the setting sun the two thus went on their journey: | |
| Close he had wrapped himself round with clouds portending a tempest. | |
| Out from the veil, now here and now there, with fiery flashes, | |
| Gleaming over the field shot forth the ominous lightning. | |
| “May not these threatening heavens,” said Hermann, “be presently sending | 5 |
| Hailstones upon us and violent rains; for fair is the harvest.” | |
| And in the waving luxuriant grain they delighted together: | |
| Almost as high it reached as the lofty shapes that moved through it. | |
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| Thereupon spoke the maiden, and said to her guide and companion: | |
| “Friend, unto whom I soon am to owe so kindly a fortune, | 10 |
| Shelter and home, while many an exile’s exposed to the tempest, | |
| Tell me concerning thy parents, I pray thee, and teach me to know them, | |
| Them whom with all my heart I desire to serve in the future. | |
| Who understands his master, more easily gives satisfaction, | |
| Having regard to the things which to him seem chief in importance, | 15 |
| And on the doing of which his firm-set mind is determined. | |
| Tell me therefore, I pray, how to win thy father and mother.” | |
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| And to her question made answer the good and intelligent Hermann: | |
| “Ah, what wisdom thou showest, thou good, thou excellent maiden, | |
| Asking thus first of all concerning the tastes of my parents! | 20 |
| Know that in vain hitherto I have labored in serving my father, | |
| Taking upon me as were it my own, the charge of the household; | |
| Early and late at work in the fields, and o’er seeing the vineyard. | |
| But my mother I fully content, who can value my service; | |
| And thou wilt also appear in her eyes the worthiest of maidens, | 25 |
| If for the house thou carest, as were it thine own thou wast keeping. | |
| Otherwise is it with father, who cares for the outward appearance. | |
| Do not regard me, good maiden, as one who is cold and unfeeling, | |
| That unto thee a stranger I straightway discover my father. | |
| Nay, I assure thee that never before have words such as these are | 30 |
| Freely dropped from my tongue, which is not accustomed to prattle; | |
| But from out of my bosom thou lurest its every secret. | |
| Some of the graces of life my good father covets about him, | |
| Outward signs of affection he wishes, as well as of honor; | |
| And an inferior servant might possibly give satisfaction, | 35 |
| Who could turn these to account, while he might be displeased with a better.” | |
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| Thereupon said she with joy, the while her hastening footsteps | |
| Over the darkening pathway with easy motion she quickened: | |
| “Truly I hope to them both I shall equally give satisfaction: | |
| For in thy mother’s nature I find such an one as mine own is, | 40 |
| And to the outward graces I’ve been from my childhood accustomed. | |
| Greatly was courtesy valued among our neighbors the Frenchmen, | |
| During their earlier days; it was common to noble and burgher, | |
| As to the peasant, and every one made it the rule of his household. | |
| So, on the side of us Germans, the children were likewise accustomed | 45 |
| Daily to bring to their parents, with kissing of hands and with curtseys, | |
| Morning good-wishes, and all through the day to be prettily mannered. | |
| Every thing thus that I learned, and to which I’ve been used from my childhood, | |
| All that my heart shall suggest, shall be brought into play for thy father. | |
| But who shall tell me of thee, and how thyself shouldst be treated, | 50 |
| Thou the only son of the house, and henceforth my master?” | |
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| Thus she said, and e’en as she spoke they stood under the pear-tree. | |
| Down from the heavens the moon at her full was shedding her splendor. | |
| Night had come on, and wholly obscured was the last gleam of sunlight, | |
| So that contrasting masses lay side by side with each other, | 55 |
| Clear and bright as the day, and black with the shadows of midnight; | |
| Gratefully fell upon Hermann’s ear the kindly asked question | |
| Under the shade of the glorious tree, the spot he so treasured, | |
| Which but this morning had witnessed the tears he had shed for the exile. | |
| And while they sat themselves down to rest them here for a little, | 60 |
| Thus spoke the amorous youth, as he grasped the hand of the maiden: | |
| “Suffer thy heart to make answer, and follow it freely in all things.” | |
| Yet naught further he ventured to say although so propitious | |
| Seemed the hour: he feared he should only haste on a refusal. | |
| Ah, and he felt besides the ring on her finger, sad token! | 65 |
| Therefore they sat there, silent and still, beside one another. | |
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| First was the maiden to speak: “How sweet is this glorious moonlight!” | |
| Said she at length: “It is as the light of the day in its brightness. | |
| There in the city I plainly can see the houses and courtyards, | |
| And in the gable—methinks I can number its panes—is a window.” | 70 |
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| “What thou seest,” the modest youth thereupon made her answer,— | |
| “What thou seest is our dwelling, to which I am leading thee downward, | |
| And that window yonder belongs to my room in the attic, | |
| Which will be thine perhaps, for various changes are making. | |
| All these fields, too, are ours; they are ripe for the harvest to-morrow. | 75 |
| Here in the shade we will rest, and partake of our noontide refreshment. | |
| But it is time we began our descent through the vineyard and garden; | |
| For dost thou mark how yon threatening storm-cloud comes nearer and nearer, | |
| Charged with lightning, and ready our fair full moon to extinguish?” | |
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| So they arose from their seats, and over the cornfields descended, | 80 |
| Through the luxuriant grain, enjoying the brightness of evening, | |
| Until they came to the vineyard, and so entered into its shadow. | |
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| Then he guided her down o’er the numerous blocks that were lying, | |
| Rough and unhewn on the pathway, and served as the steps of the alley. | |
| Slowly the maiden descended, and leaning her hands on his shoulder, | 85 |
| While with uncertain beams, the moon through the leaves overlooked them, | |
| Ere she was veiled by the cloud, and so left the couple in darkness. | |
| Carefully Hermann’s strength supported the maid that hung o’er him; | |
| But not knowing the path and the rough-hewn steps that led down it, | |
| Missed she her footing, her ankle turned, and she surely had fallen, | 90 |
| Had not the dexterous youth his arm outstretched in an instant, | |
| And his beloved upheld. She gently sank on his shoulder; | |
| Breast was pressed against breast, and cheek against cheek. Thus he stood there | |
| Fixed as a marble statue, the force of will keeping him steadfast, | |
| Drew her not to him more closely, but braced himself under her pressure. | 95 |
| Thus he the glorious burden felt, the warmth of her bosom, | |
| And the perfume of her breath, that over his lips was exhaling; | |
| Bore with the heart of a man the majestic form of the woman. | |
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| But she with playfulness said, concealing the pain that she suffered: | |
| “That is a sign of misfortune, so timorous person would tell us, | 100 |
| When on approaching a house we stumble not far from the threshold; | |
| And for myself, I confess, I could wish for a happier omen. | |
| Let us here linger awhile that thy parents may not have to blame thee, | |
| Seeing a limping maid, and thou seem an incompetent landlord.” | |
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